


Focus on you

by nukaworld



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Amputee Malik, Appearance Angst, Caretaking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Set during AC1, Stabbing, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 15:01:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30057282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nukaworld/pseuds/nukaworld
Summary: “Malik, are you still here?”A wave of panic drowned Malik. He threw the cloth back on the table and grabbed the bottle from his mouth.Altaïr entered so soundlessly in the bureau, like he always did. It always pissed Malik off, and this time was no exception to it.“Stay where you are!” Malik shouted from his room.----------Malik is wounded, but he doesn't want Altaïr to see what's left of his arm.
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32
Collections: /r/FanFiction Trope Bingo Events





	Focus on you

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the /r/FanFiction Trope Bingo Event, and the trope here is "Appearance Angst"  
> Who could be a better choice than Malik for this, right?  
> Title of the fic is from Herizen's song, "Focus"

The sunlight flooded down in the main chamber of the bureau, the rays illuminating the fine draping hung on the walls.

Malik looked up to the grated panel, holding his breath as if the sound would be too loud for him to hear anything else. He stayed like that for a few seconds, standing in the doorway and waiting for a noise, a sign of someone coming.

The usual hubbub from the city was the only thing his ears caught. 

Malik sighed in relief, and stepped back into his office. No one was coming. Altaïr wasn’t coming.

He left an hour ago, the feather Malik gave him between his fingers and his awful smug smile drawn on his face.

Malik entered his private room and slid his robes off. He winced in pain, each movement like a knife slowly inserted into his injured skin. With gritted teeth, Malik held up a cry when the fabric brushed the wound.

Early this morning, when he walked back from the market where he bought enough to refill the bureau’s stocks, he fell on his way down the ladder. 

His breathing had stopped suddenly when his back hit the ground, and an intense wave of pain took over his body—on his way down, his dagger had lodged itself between his ribs.

Malik took care of his injury, appropriately cleaning the wound and managing to produce a makeshift bandage around his torso before Altaïr walked in. If the novice ever had questions about Malik’s state, he didn’t voice them before his departure.

Struggling with his unique remaining hand, Malik held between his teeth the closed ointment bottle while his fingers brushed a clean cloth on the lesion. The bleeding had stopped, and the cut on his flank didn’t seem too deep. 

Malik kept his gaze away from his left arm, refusing to see the stump and the scars mapping it. The mere vision of it was sickening to him, and the fight against his own eyesight only made his venture more draining.

He groaned, his arm’s reach not long enough for him to properly cleanse the blood remains around the wound.

“Malik, are you still here?”

A wave of panic drowned Malik. He threw the cloth back on the table and grabbed the bottle from his mouth.

Altaïr entered so soundlessly in the bureau, like he always did. It always pissed Malik off, and this time was no exception to it.

“Stay where you are!” Malik shouted from his room.

His heartbeat paced under his ribcage. An hour, it’s only been an hour since Altaïr left. He couldn’t have completed the mission so quickly.

Malik swore under his breath—how much he  _ despised _ this man.

“Don’t come any closer, novice. Give me a minute.” Malik said, fighting against the shivering in his voice.

He was scared.

Scared of Altaïr coming into the room. Scared of his reaction upon seeing his arm. 

This was Altaïr’s doing and yet, Malik could not stand the idea of him discovering the outcome of his stupidity back in Solomon’s temple.

If Malik himself couldn’t bear to see his stump, no one could.

He quickly grabbed the ointment, and brought the lid to his teeth to open it. In his haste, his fingers trembled and the bottle smashed on the floor. Malik cursed out loud.

“Hey, are you alright?” Altaïr stepped into the room. “What is go—”

Malik stiffened, his body freezing when he noticed Altaïr’s shadow on the wall. He lowered his head, shaking it.

“I told you to stay outside. You’ll never listen, won’t you?”

Malik clenched his jaw, his hand still shaking from the rush and his fear of being seen. In his chest, his heart missed half of the beats it was supposed to take.

Altaïr came closer, his steps silent on the floor. Malik shifted, only showing his right side of his body under the sunlight.

“You’re injured, what happened?”

Altaïr took his hood off. Despite the fact they grew up together, and have been in each other’s life since birth, it always felt strange to see Altaïr’s face. Malik had the impression of being suddenly taken into Altaïr’s private place, just as Altaïr burst into his.

“I’m fine.” 

Malik swallowed with difficulty, and leaned down to get his robes. An excruciating flash of pain submerged his nerves, and Malik recoiled.

Altaïr walked over to him.

“You’re not fine.” He picked up Malik’s robes. “What happened?”

“None of your business.”

Malik snatched the fabric out of Altaïr’s hands, and threw it on his left shoulders to hide his arm. 

In Altaïr’s golden eyes, he found a clear objection before Altaïr lowered his gaze on his boots—the sticky ointment was already attached to it.

“You got more of that?”

Malik tightened his jaw, ready to scold Altaïr, but the pain rushed once again in his flank. His eyes met Altaïr’s, and Malik could have stumbled when he noticed the worry in them.

“I don’t want you to see me like that.” Malik’s voice was a mixture of anger and fear.

“It’s not the first time I've seen an injury like yours.”

“You really are stupid, novice.” Malik sighed.

“You want my help or not?”

Malik fought back the urge to kick Altaïr out of his bureau. The pain was atrocious, and he feared the wound would reopen if he waited too long before having it treated. 

“I got another bottle in the box over there.” Malik cocked his head on the right.

Altaïr came back with the bottle, and gestured to the numerous pillows on the blankets and the floor.

“Go lie down there, I’m handling this.”

“Fine, just,” Malik’s features curled up in apprehension. “Just don’t look at my arm.”

Malik kept his robes on his stump as he laid down.

Altaïr crouched next to him, proceeding to spread some ointment on a cloth before softly cleaning Malik’s wound.

Malik flinched at the contact, and inhaled slowly to numb the pain away.

“Are you going to tell me what happened to you? Whose head are you going to lay a feather on?”

“Myself and my own clumsiness. I fell down the ladder this morning and stabbed myself.”

Altaïr looked up, and the sunlight found its way in his features. The scar across his lips shined under the beams. 

Malik’s heart gave a slow, hard thump.

“We should find another system for you to come up and down the bureau.”

“Like we have time for that.”

Altaïr smiled. It warmed Malik, and he relaxed a bit more. He fixed the ceiling, focused on his breathing to feel less of the ache coming with each of Altaïr’s gestures. 

“Have you completed your mission?” Malik asked.

“I have.”

“It’s only been an hour since you left.”

“So what?”

Malik snorted. Altaïr was annoying and yet, Malik could not deny how good he was when he actually tried hard enough. Altaïr’s downfall only found its roots in his egocentrism and pride. He was a great assassin—the best, even, but only when he let modesty take a hold of him.

Altaïr brushed the wound with the cloth, and Malik jolted in pain. In his chaotic movement, the robe slipped away from his amputated arm.

“No!” Malik shouted, but his reaction was slower than gravity.

He felt the warm, light air sweeping across his stump. Malik turned his eyes on his left arm, and felt his heart wrenching to the sight of his scars. 

Despite the good work of the surgeon back in Masyaf, and the proper healing process, Malik found it disgusting.

His breath stumbled in his aerials, and his muscles felt imprisoned in terror. He wanted to speak, to get Altaïr’s attention on something else but the words were stuck in his throat. Malik felt like he could choke on them.

“I’m not looking.” Altaïr’s voice was soft and low. “I’m not, and I won’t. It’s alright, Malik.”

Malik’s panicking eyes dared to look at Altaïr. 

It was like nothing happened. Altaïr was focused on his task, his hands steady as he unfolded a roll of white fabric to ready the bandage.

Malik swallowed with difficulty between two heavy breaths. His robes were out of reach, and he couldn’t move before Altaïr was done. He felt helpless.

A weight surged in his chest, and a knot formed in his throat. Malik felt a stinging on his face, like a thousand tiny needles buried under his cheekbones.

He pressed his lips together, and as he inhaled, tears rose to his eyes. 

Malik tried to sob in silence, but his unsteady breathing betrayed him. Altaïr looked up, his eyes locking with Malik’s.

Without saying a word, nor looking away from Malik’s gaze, Altaïr grabbed the robes and delicately placed them back on, hiding Malik’s amputated arm from his wet eyes and the light. 

Malik saw a faint, soft smile on Altaïr’s lips.

“There, much better. Now, not even the sun can show you disrespect.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this little piece! I'll come back with a few more Altmal one-shots 👀
> 
> A big thank you to Kara for her amazing help and support! <3


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